The Torn Letter
I tore your letter into stripsNo bigger than the airy feathersThat ducks preen out in changing weathersUpon the shifting ripple-tips.
In darkness on my bed aloneI seemed to see you in a vision,And hear you say: “Why this derisionOf one drawn to you, though unknown?”
Yes, eve’s quick mood had run its course,The night had cooled my hasty madness;I suffered a regretful sadnessWhich deepened into real remorse.
I thought what pensive patient daysA soul must know of grain so tender,How much of good must grace the senderOf such sweet words in such bright phrase.
Uprising then, as things unpricedI sought each fragment, patched and mended;The midnight whitened ere I had endedAnd gathered words I had sacrificed.
But some, alas, of those I threwWere past my search, destroyed for ever:They were your name and place; and neverDid I regain those clues to you.
I learnt I had missed, by rash unheed,My track; that, so the Will decided,In life, death, we should be divided,And at the sense I ached indeed.
That ache for you, born long ago,Throbs on; I never could outgrow it.What a revenge, did you but know it!But that, thank God, you do not know.
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